


Something New

by GypsyMoon88



Series: A Time for Wolves: Hidden Moments of the Red and White Wolf [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hair Braiding, Is that an actual thing, Joramun the first King-Beyond-the-Wall, Lost Love, Love Triangle, Sansa makes a new friend, The Red Wolf, Tragic Romance, Witches, myths and legends, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyMoon88/pseuds/GypsyMoon88
Summary: Mama warned her to stay clear of the flame-haired Kneeler, that she was not like them; she was something different and set apart.  Ionë tried to heed her mother's words, not wanting to see Papa's glower or feel his calloused palm across her face. Yet, try as she might, she couldn't stay away.





	Something New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Janina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janina/gifts).



> Another "lost chapter" from the original narrative. Sansa has been dwelling amongst the Wildings for about a month and has remained relatively isolated. In this chapter, she befriends Muirgayne's and Tormund's eldest daughter, Ionë (pronounced I-Oh-Nay).

**Something New**

  
  


Her braids were unravelling. Ionë could not help but notice, her green eyes drawn to the kneeler’s crimson mane. It looked soft and sleek, despite its unruly state, shining like fire when the sun’s rays touched it. It was redder than Ygritte’s and longer. And so, so very pretty.

Ionë ’s fingers itched. 

Mama had warned her to stay clear of the flame-haired kneeler, that she was not like them; she was something different and set apart. The girl had never laid eyes on a kneeler before, Mance and the Elders had warned their people of them.

_ “These kneelers are dangerous and bloodthirsty. Like ravenous dogs, they can never be sated. You are to stay clear of them, for they are not like us.” _

Aye, Ionë had heard the stories and quivered.She knew to be afraid of the kneelers, knew that nothing good hailed from south of the Wall. 

And yet…

Yet, she was not afraid of this particular kneeler for whatever reason. The girl looked to be about sixteen, a mere frightened lamb. A stark contrast from the frigid and haughty ice queen that arrived trussed and tethered nearly a moon ago. The kneelers were demons for Ionë and her people; equal to the grumpkins and snarks of children’s bedtime stories. 

Io was a good girl, Muirgayne’s favorite. She was not one to blatantly disobey commands, not wanting to see Papa’s glower or feel his calloused palm across her cheek. Yet, try as she might, she could not stay away.

Besides, the kneeler had red hair, a sign from the gods that she was lucky. And she looked friendly, if not a little lonely.

Plus, Mama always said Ionë was great at making friends…

“I could help you with your braids, if you’d like.” The girl offered timidly, stepping further into the hut, a small, hopeful smile upon her elfish face. The kneeler jumped, startled, looking at Ioné as though she were a spectre, something alien and strange. 

“Excuse me?” 

Io smiled again, stepping in further. Nay, she had no reason to fear this kneeler. She was but a dove amongst hawks. 

“Your braids are coming loose and I could redo them, if you’d like.”

Sansa was nonplussed. In the month since her kidnapping, she had not placed any particular value on her appearance, only on escaping. Gods only knew her hair must have looked a fright. In that moment, Sansa wished she had her silvered brush and antler comb.

A throb jolted her, dull and acerbic.

_ Mama! Oh gods, how I miss Mama!  _ Catelyn had always loved her hair, long and thick and so much like her own. Immediately, Sansa was transported back to her solar in Winterfell, Lady Catelyn’s gentle and deft hands running through her daughter's hair, the smell of sweet almond oil wafting and drifting throughout the room. 

Sansa’s hair was her pride, one of the many connections that tethered her to her mother. Call her silly, but she did not trust just anyone with her hair. However, the girl--Ionë, as she remembered Muirgayne calling her--had sweetly offered. 

And gods only knew when the next opportunity would present itself?

Sansa nodded, an imperceptible gesture. 

“I-I would like that very much, thank you.”

The girl smiled brightly, a pretty thing to behold. Sasa smiled again, briefly, touched at the young child's joy. Had circumstances been different, she would have made a fine lady’s maid. 

Sansa settled herself in front of the fireplace, not quite sure as to what to anticipate. As if by magic, a comb manifested out of the girl’s hand. It wasn’t her beloved antler’s comb, but it was a welcomed sight. Ionë took her time, her strokes both attentive and meticulous, almost reverent. 

“You have the most gentle touch, Ionë, thank you.”

Io was momentarily stunned. She had never interacted with the kneeler previously, much less told her her name; she was sure of it. Yet, it gave Io a strange sense of pride knowing someone other than the Free-Folk knew who she was. 

“You know of me, Kneeler?”

Ionë wanted to know her name, ‘twas the least she could do, but did not quite know how to ask. 

Sansa laughed, a dulcet and mellifluous sound. It reminded Io of tinkling bells. She liked the sound very much. 

“Aye, you are Muirgayne’s daughter, yes? She has told me a bit about you--mostly that you’re stubborn and brave.”

Ionë laughed, the sound joining Sansa’s. Regardless of Mance’s prejudices and admonitions, this particular kneeler wasn’t so bad. ‘Twas a pity that she had been born on the wrong side of the Wall. 

“Mama just worries, she says that I’m too wild for my own good.”

Sansa smiled, her heart softening to this Wildling . She felt a definite kinship to the young girl, despite the differences in age. 

“You remind me of my younger sister, Arya. Once, she broke our stable boy’s nose because he dared to steal a kiss from her. Our mother was so horrified that she banished her to her rooms for a whole moon without dessert!”

Io smiled again as she ran the comb through Sansa’s hair, the fire catching and dancing off her gossamere mane. 

“Your hair is like the weirwood leaves, truly. It’s considered lucky amongst my people to have hair so red. It means that the gods favor you and you’re kissed by fire.”

Sansa huffed and rolled her eyes, a most unladylike gesture. Septa Mordane would have had the fits if she had seen her.

“I truly do not feel so lucky, Io. A moon ago, I was safe, at home with my family and loved ones. Now, I am here, in the wolves’ den.”

Ionë didn’t mean to let it slip, but only to listen attentively and remain quiet, like both her mother and father warned her. Sometimes, it was better to just listen and not say anything at all. Yet, Io knew things, heard things.

Most importantly, she saw things--saw how Jon Snow reacted to the kneeler whenever she was near. Saw how the Wolf Prince’s eyes followed her wherever she went, lingering long after she had gone. How he would breathe in--deep and heavy, as though drowning--inhaling her scent, memorizing her.

Ionë may not know much, given her ten and two years of living, but she knew what infatuation looked like. She had seen such exchanges between her parents. Most importantly, she knew what love looked like. It was unmistakable. 

And Jon Snow was in too deep. The flame-haired kneeler had captured his heart completely. 

This was the stuff of songs, and Ionë was a romantic at heart. 

“Perhaps it was fated, Kneeler. Perhaps you are where you were always meant to be.”

Sansa frowned, not comprehending. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Ionë looked for something-- _ anything-- _ to change the subject, her eyes once again dropping to the girl’s hair.

“Have you ever heard of the story of the Red Wolf? It’s a favorite among the Free Folk.”

Sansa shook her head, somewhat intrigued. She was too old for such childish stories, but didn’t want to appear rude. Besides, Ionë could be the only ally she had; why offend her?

_ “Thousands of years ago, before Bael the Bard and the twin kings, Grendel and Gorne, there was Joramun the Fierce, the first King-Beyond-the-Wall. In those long-ago days, the Free Folk and the kneelers lived in peace alongside each other in what is now the Gift. At that time, King Joramun had a young son, Caelen, who had fallen in love with the daughter of a lord. Spirited and beautiful with hair of crimson, the lord’s daughter was much esteemed by the people; Alayne, they had called her. _

_ As the years passed, Alayne grew to womanhood and was sought after by all the young men in the lands--Free Folk and Kneeler alike. However, she had eyes for no one but the handsome Caelen, who grew to become a skilled and formidable warrior. Despite their love, many within the village were envious of their union, the most covetous was Ryker, an evil augurer who practiced in the black arts. Angered by Alayne’s rebuffs, he swore, in his wrath, that if he could not hold Alayne’s affection, it would never be reciprocated unto anyone. _

_ On the night before Caelen’s and Alayne’s wedding, Ryker cast an enchantment upon the girl , turning her into a beautiful red wolf. With every full moon, the magnificent creature was seen moving gracefully about the moors, like a phantom. Sometimes, it would emit a mournful howl into the night sky before it disappeared into the forest. _

_ In the meantime, Caelen was bereft, inconsolable in his grief over the loss of Alayne and resolute in reclaiming his lost bride.  _

_ At the edge of the village lived a woodswitch, Macumba, whose skills in sorcery rivaled Ryker’s. Moved by the young warrior’s desperation, Macumba agreed to assist Caelen and presented him with a pearl-tipped arrow, laden with heavy magic. The white witch maintained that if the arrow pricked the heart of the magical beast, she would change back into his beloved Alayne. _

_ Months soon elapsed and the phantom wolf continued to evade humans, for so many tried to capture the enchanting creature, believing it to be lucky. One evening, the village hunters organized a hunt, the winner to receive the coveted wolf’s pelt as a prize. Determined not to allow any harm befall upon his beloved, Caelen set off into the night, hoping to be the first to apprehend the elusive beast. _

_ He spotted her in the meadow, bounding towards the sanctuary of the secluded woods. Yet, at the exact moment, Ryker also spotted Alayne. Caelen loosed his magical arrow, the pearl-tip lodging into the breast of his quarry. Unfortunately, Ryker also released his arrow, black and obsidian-tipped, right into the creature’s heart.  _

_ As the spectre wolf collapsed, wounded, a thick mist permeated the meadow. As the fog cleared, Caelen was overjoyed to find his beloved Alayne, once again in her true form. Yet, as he embraced her, his elation turned to horror when he discovered the obsidian tipped arrow had killed the love he had only just rediscovered.  _

_ Wrapping the young girl in his cloak, the heartbroken warrior buried his love at the foot of a tree, where every winter, while other plants and trees are left desolate and bare, the leaves remain a crimson scarlet in her honor and memory” _

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The braid was finished, an intricate waterfall of twists and colored shells. Sansa’s hair had never looked more refulgent, but she had hardly noticed its splendor, her mind was racing, a stream of incoherent, jumbled thoughts. She was too old for such wild and foolish stories, too jaded to believe in such nonsense. And yet, her heart could not stop palpitating, could not quiet.

_ Why was this story so familiar despite never hearing it before? _

“Who told you this story, Ionë?” 

Io smiled as she gathered up her comb and few remaining shells. She had done great work,l; Sansa’s hair was magnificent.

“It’s just a story, Kneeler. We Free Folk love to talk when we’re happy.”

As she stood at the entrance of the hut, the girl called her back. Ionë tensed, fearful she had offended her. 

“My name is Sansa, Ionë. Thank you for taking such wonderful care of my hair, and thank you for the beautiful story.”

Io nodded and ducked out of the hut, smiling. She had nothing to worry about.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> The story Ionë tells Sansa within the narrative is loosely based off a famous Native American myth called, "The Legend of the White Doe: The Story of Virginia Dare of Roanoke." 
> 
> Thoughts? Opinions? Comments? Please be sure to let me know what you think. I would love to hear from you!


End file.
